Dangerous at Times
by Cathryn
Summary: "Mallrats" fic. Exactly what did Shannon say to Tricia about Brodie? WARNING: The R rating is for language and SLASHY themes. If this bothers you, go no further.


Dangerous at Times

Just thought I'd emphasize it again: Slash. You know, guy/guy stuff. Or, in this case, a guy lusting over another guy. Don't like it, don't read it. But if you do anyway, go ahead and flame me. I could use the laugh.  
  
  
  
Just because a guy likes anal sex doesn't make him gay. That's an unfair stereotype of our society. I've been pushing _that_ little nugget of information into a lot of heads over the past few years, including my own. It's hard. People don't get that. It's hard to accept that you like something that goes against everything deemed by society as Okay and Normal. And frankly, it's pretty damned hard to _get_ it too. But I digress. My point is, being a straight American guy who likes anal sex is confusing as all hell. But I finally, after some serious struggling, got it all straightened out. So to speak.  
  
Then _he_ comes along.  
  
That fucker Brodie.  
  
I don't know what it is about that bastard. I've never been interested in another guy before. It's not even something breathtakingly lame, like, "The way he carries himself gets me so hot, oh baby." He doesn't carry himself any different from any other degenerate slacker asshole who has nothing better to do than take up space at the mall all day. He wears those slouchy clothes and doesn't comb his hair and always has the _same damn stubble!_ What does he do, fucking _cultivate_ it? He _isn't_ any different from any other degenerate slacker asshole, unless you count the fact that he isn't constantly stoned.  
  
And yet.  
  
Maybe it's his attitude. He has this attitude that just _begs_ to be taken down a notch, and from day one I've known exactly how I'd like to do that. The problem with _that_ theory is that I've dealt with a lot of assholes like that and I haven't wanted to fuck any of them.  
  
Maybe it really doesn't matter why. This isn't fucking algebra. If I isolate the variable, it's not gonna go away. It won't be replaced by some quantifiable element that I can deal with. And _he'll_ still be there, in the fucking mall _every day_ for no reason. Swaggering around with the inevitable Dixie cup, bonding with his fellow comic book retards, leering at the lingerie displays, and yet still thinking that he's somehow better than me. Giving me that fucking look, that one that makes both makes me want to punch him and makes me wish I had a sweater to drape in front of me. I suppose I should be grateful that he's too busy trying to score points off me to notice.  
  
But I'm not grateful. I'm pissed off. Who the fuck does he think he is? Where the _fuck_ does he get off? I'd like to show him a thing or two. I'd like to show him his fucking _place._ I'd like to teach him a little respect.  
  
His place. His place is on his hands and knees in front of me, with his pants around his ankles. I'd teach him very thoroughly. Fuck him hard, make him yell, make him come so hard that I'd have to prop him up against the wall when I was done with him. That'd drill some respect into him.  
  
No pun intended.  
  
And who's to say he wouldn't want it? He's always around, getting my face, cutting across my path, never letting me just walk by without some smart remark. He acts like some fucking fourth grader picking on the girl he likes. Yeah. I bet he'd want it. He'd probably even like it.  
  
**********  
  
"Shannon? Excuse me, Shannon?"  
  
"Wha?" Shannon Hamilton, knocked out of his mental wanderings, looked blankly up at the girl he'd just fucked as he tried to rejoin reality.  
  
Tricia Jones had gotten dressed while Shannon's mind had been out to lunch. She was perched neatly on a chair next to the bed, legs crossed with careful precision at the ankles. She held a notepad.  
  
"Shannon, at this point, I have a routine series of questions that I ask each subject. Since the answers are a little personal, I've turned off the camera. The only record of your responses will be my notes and your memory. Okay?"  
  
"Okay. Yeah, shoot." Shannon sat up, making a token attempt at gathering the bedclothes around himself.  
  
Tricia nodded. "Thank you. Now: What have you been thinking of since the sexual part of our encounter ended?"  
  
"Brodie fucking Bruce." The name was out of Shannon's mouth before he'd even considered his answer.  
  
Tricia gave no sign of any surprise she might have felt. "I see. Could you expand upon that, please?"  
  
"Sure." Shannon looked directly at her, all politeness suddenly phased out by something that sent a faint chill up Tricia's spine. "I was thinking about how I'd really like to mess that fucker up. Cave his face in. Break a few bones for him. Break a few bones _on_ him." He smirked and patted his crotch. "Really ream him out. Make him think twice next time he thinks about showing his face at the mall."  
  
As threats of violence went, Tricia had heard more inventive things on PBS. But there was something about Shannon's demeanour - the wildly angry look in his eyes - that made her swallow convulsively and say a quick prayer for Brodie.  
  
"Thank you, Shannon." The prayer for Brodie was rapidly followed by a prayer of thanks that her voice was rock-steady. "You've been very helpful." She set down her notepad and stood. "I'm going to give you twenty minutes to dress, and shower if you like, after which I have to request that you leave. I do have to get up early in the morning." Bullshit, all of it bullshit - there were more questions she usually asked and her research often included observations of morning-after behaviour - but she suddenly and desperately wanted this guy out.  
  
Shannon nodded agreeably. The expression that had made Tricia so nervous was suddenly gone from his face, as cleanly as if it had never been there. Tricia thought uneasily of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde. "Sure, no problem," he said. "I have to work in the morning, too."  
  
"Thank you." Tricia dredged up a smile. "I'll give you some privacy." She quickly made her way out of the room, with one thought chasing itself in her mind:  
  
_Christ, Brodie . . . please be careful with this guy._

  
  



End file.
